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Along  The  ^oad 


Published  by  A.  H.  Rank 

255  Natoma  St, 

San  Francisco,  Cal. 


--i-  V.  XT^-V^"        ^.* '^I  "^^  ■^-— — Tr^---.'»'"w(?-"Sj;;^ 


eiFT 


*•,••••,•« 

•  •  ;•  •  ••  t  *    •  •     *  '. 


^here  are  mant/  roads  leading 
to  nowhere. 


%yt  must  6e  terrible  to  have 
reached  the  end  of  the  trail 
and  find  that  one  has  come 
the  ivrong  way. 


ivil56302 


THE  CALL  IMPERATIVE 

The  white  road  stretches  far  away, 
Fair  hills  invite  on  either  side, 

The  white  road  calls,  I  must  obey. 
It  calls,  and  will  not  be  denied. 

The  white  road  reaches  far,  and  oh, 
The  sweet  wind  calls  me  by  my  name, 

Where  it  shall  blow  1  long  to  go 
My  starved  soul  answers  plain. 

For  neither  love  nor  duty  own 
So  strong  a  claim  upon  my  will 

As  the  consuming  thirst  to  know 
What  lies  beyond  that  utmost  hill. 


ACHIEVEMENT 


What  a  night  it  is!  The  rain  pours  down 
relentlessly,  the  gutters  are  rushing  brooks 
and  the  street  lights  flare  fitfully  with  the  sud- 
den gusts. 

Yet  if  one  had  just  awakened  from  a  Rip 
Van  Winkle  sleep,  with  no  idea  of  time,  he 
would  know  it  was  Christmas  eve,  for  through 
the  storm  comes  the  smell  of  fresh  cut  ever- 
greens, and  in  spite  of  the  gusts  the  unmis- 
takeable  Christmas  "feel"  is  in  the  air.  The 
sound  of  the  driven  rain  in  its  fiercest  bursts 
sends  a  thrill  through  one  who  listens  undis- 
turbed by  other  thoughts.  It  can  even  compel 
the  dismissal  of  other  things  iT  one  but  yields 
to  its  insistence,  and  send  a  mad  exhiliration 
through  the  blood. 

There  are  many  merry  people  in  the  city  to- 
night, people  who  find  in  the  storm  only  a 
cause  for  congratulation  that  they  are  sheltered 
from  its  force. 

There  are  many  too,  who  are  sad,  and  to 
them  the  wild  work  outside  is  but  an  emphasis 
of  their  distress. 

Of  all  the  people  in  this  season  of  general 
goodwill,  who  is  happiest?      Is  it,   think  you. 


0ie  <;jhiid  who ,  faJis  asleep  exhausted  with  ex- 
citement, filled  with  almost  delirious  anticipa- 
tions for  the  morrow's  dawn? 

Oh  no,  it  is  not  the  child. 

Is  it  the  young  mother  whose  early  Christ- 
mas gift  from  God  stirs  faintly  at  her  side 
where  gentle  hands  have  placed  -  it, — ^whose 
light  breath,  for  which  she  has  just  paid  so 
dearly,  she  feels  upon  her  breast? 

It  is  not  the  mother,  though  hers  is  a  won- 
derful joy. 

Nor  is  it  the  young  father  coming  softly  in 
with  awe  and  reverence  and  studied  careful- 
ness, to  look  upon  his  treasures;  for  possession 
is  not  the  highest  joy. 

It  is  not  the  succcessful  man,  hurrying  home- 
ward in  his  carriage,  almost  buried  in  parcels, 
— notwithstanding  that  success  is  sweet,  and 
that  it  is  truly  more  blessed  to  give  than  to 
receive. 

It  is  not  even  the  eager  lover  whose  Christ- 
mas gift  will  be  a  bride;  nor  yet  a  maid  who 
has  today  given  and  received  her  first  kiss  of 
love;  it  is  not  any  of  these,  for  love  is  only  a 
part  of  life. 

Think  you,  who  IS  happiest? 

It  is  Lindo.  Quiet  young  Lindo,  a  mere 
clerk  for  a  small  bookseller  in  a  by-street,  ob- 
scure, unknown,  whose  wages  barely  meet  his 
pressing  needs,  with  no  future,  no  *  "prospects," 
yet  because  of  his  youth,  without  a  care. 
Lindo,  in  his  little  room  up  five  Rights  of  stairs, 


next  the  roof,  where  now  and  then  a  chance 
drop  of  rain  finds  its  way  down  the  chimney 
and  sizzles  in  the  meagre  fire.  For  Lindo  has 
sat  there  alone  hearing  the  storm,  until  the 
riotous  delight  of  it  got  into  his  blood  and  he 
wrote  with  desperate  eagerness  a  Song  of  the 
Rain. 

Then,  reading  it  over,  he  adds  a  touch  here 
and  there,  he-writes  a  verse — improving,  per- 
fecting it,  for  he  is  a  better  critic  than  anyone 
dreams,  and  at  last,  seeing  that  it  is  good,  he 
feels  that  high  exaltation,  the  keenest  joy  given 
to  mortals,  the  divine  rapture  of  creation,  which 
is  the  elixir  of  life. 


THE  WORLD-WIDE  GIFT 


If  you  had  power,  omnipotent  power,  to  do 
your  utmost  wiU,  to  give  to  all  the  world  what- 
ever gift  you  choose, — what  would  you  choose 
to  give? 

To  all  the  world — whatever  thing! 

Why,  you  would  give  each  one  happiness, 
of  course.  But  to  each  soul  a  different  thing 
means  happiness.  We  wish  each  one  a 
"Merry  Christmas  and  a  Happy  New  Year" 
without  a  passing  thought  of  what  his  special 
happiness  may  consist.  It  is  easy  to  say,  "I 
wish  you  joy."  Yet  the  very  conditions  that 
bring  joy  to  one  may  cause  sorrow  to  another. 
The  very  gain  of  one  is  often  loss  to  another. 
Individual  happiness  consists  of  each  one  doing 
and  getting  the  thing  he  wants.  In  common 
justice  each  one  may  only  do,  and  get,  the 
thing  he  wants,  provided  it  does  not  infringe 
upon  the  same  privilege  of  another. 

At  the  present  status  of  the  world  individual 
happiness  might  prove  a  terrible  gift. 

Take  thought  again;  this  hour  the  nations 
of  the  world  are  demanding  Peace. 

Why  not  give  them  their  peace  as  a  great 
universal  gift?       Because  Peace  is  a  vast  word, 


so  vast  a  word  that  no  one  yet  knows  its  mean- 
ing. Peace  is  not  a  condition,  it  is  a  result. 
Peace  is  made  up  of  many  things — but  three 
great  elements.      Three  inexorable  conditions: 

1  St.  A  world  wide  peace  can  only  be  when 
all  the  world  is  fed  and  clothed.  There  can  be 
no  true  peace  while  there  is  yet  one  starving, 
ragged  child.  ^ 

2nd.  A  world  wide  peace  can  only  be 
when  the  sacredness  of  Love  is  made  inviolate. 
There  is  no  peace  while  any  woman  has  to  sell 
herself  for  bread,  either  in  the  marriage  bond 
or  out  of  it. 

3rd.  A  world  wide  peace  can  only  be  when 
all  work  is  made  universal.  There  never  will 
be  peace  while  some  must  always  toil,  and 
others  always  play.  All  must  work,  and  all 
must  play,  in  perfect  balance,  not  only  for 
peace, — but  for  health  and  sanity. 

Until  these  three  conditions  have  been  met, 
we  shall  have  bloody  wars  and  revolutions  re- 
curring with  irregular  periodicity. 

They  call  for  peace  now  because  they  are 
weary  of  killing,  not  because  they  have  learned 
what  peace  means.  When  they  do  learn,  they 
will  make  it  for  themselves.  Peace  can  not  be 
given,  it  must  attained. 

Well  then, — why  not  erase  these  soiled 
pages  of  history,  with  the  hands  of  omnipo- 
tence, and  give  the  world  at  one  stroke, — 
heaven  7 

What  is  heaven?      Where  is  heaven? 


A  newspaper  writer  of  this  city  has  been 
busy  for  several  weeks  with  a  symposium  on 
the  subject  of  heaven,  gathered  from  many 
minds,  among  both  clergy  and  laity. 

It  makes  strange  reading.  There  are  as 
many  opinions  as  there  are  personalities.  But 
through  them  all,  no  matter  how  widely  they 
differ,  runs  one  identical  item,  remoteness. 
Some  say  heaven  is  a  place,  some  say  it  is  a 
condition.  A  place,  not  here, — a  condition, 
not  achieved.  Because  we  are  not  happy  here, 
and  heaven  means  happiness,  then  heaven 
must  be  remote.  Some  said,  "Heaven  is  here 
and  now," — if  certain  conditions  are  met. 

The  widely  varying  ideas  of  heaven, — the 
widely  differing  ideas  the  many  religions  de- 
scribe as  heaven, — together  with  the  unani- 
mous decree  of  remoteness,  all  go  to  prove  that 
heaven  is  a  word  used  to  describe  briefly  a 
state  of  happiness  and  peace  forever. 

But  Christ  said: 

"The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  within  you." 

Then  heaven  must  be  a  consciousness  posi- 
tively attainable  now,  and  not  remote. 

If  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  which  is  peace 
and  happiness,  is  within  us, — then  we  may 
have  it  at  any  time. 

Christ  said  the  law  was  Love,  and  laid  down 
rules  of  conduct  in  consistence  with  that  Law, 
— rules  which  we  have  never  followed.  The 
message  of  Christianity  has  been  taught,  but 
never  adopted. 

10 


What  greater  gift  to  all  the  world  could 
there  be  than  to  decree  that  into  every  heart 
there  should  come  a  new  dawn,  a  new  awaken- 
ing to  the  eternal  truths,  an  awakening  so  keen, 
so  strong,  so  sure,  that  at  once  we  begin  to 
build  a  new  world  with  our  latent  conscious- 
ness? A  world  where  there  can  never  be  an- 
other wrong,  or  another  injustice  in  the  heart 
of  man*. 

A  new  world  where  all  are  fed  and  clothed, 
where  all  are  free,  where  all  share  the  work  and 
play. 

A  world  where  the  consciousness  that  Christ 
embodied,  is  born,  to  live  forever  in  every  soul. 

A  world  on  which,  when  looking  down, — 
the  angels  can  truly  sing  of 

"Peace  on  Earth,  good-will  to  men." 
This  is  the  World-wide  Gift. 

V 


11 


It  is  great  to  serve. 

*  *  * 

Pain  grows  on  the  summit  of  pleasure. 

Often  the  height  of  freedom  is  to  be  found 
in  bondage. 

All  the  world  belongs  to  him  who  claims  the 
least. 

^  ^  ^ 

Your  desire  tells  you  what  you  shall  do. 

The    "fall   of   man"    occurs   daily,    but   also 
"his  resurrection." 

A  man  is  what  he  has  realized  himself  to  be. 

He  who  went  from  hell  to  heaven  is  purer 
than  he  who  never  left  his  high  estate. 

12      ' 


MEIELI 


Chapter  I. 
Dear  Herald: 

When  leaving  you  at  the  office  the  other  day 
I  did  not  go  home  at  once  to  answer  those  let- 
ters as  should  have  been  my  duty,  but  took  a 
stroll  into  nature  upon  one  of  the  highest  points 
in  our  beloved  city  of  San  Francisco,  that  I 
might  have  a  talk  with  the  heart  of  humanity 
ere  taking  any  decided  step  into  the  future. 

And  as  1  stood  and  overlooked  the  bay  and 
surrounding  mountains,  the  little  island  Alca- 
traz,  and  the  city  and  wondered  about  the  in- 
terior of  the  different  buildings,  who  their  in- 
habitants might  be,  arid  how  they  lived,  there 
arose  from  it  all  the  gentle  air  of  noon  and  a 
church  bell  pealed  from  somewhere,  and  then 
I  knew  that  now  for  a  little  while  the  many 
would  lay  down  their  work,  and  so  I  too  sat 
down  upon  the  bench  of  stone  before  me  to 
eat  my  sandwich. 

And  as  1  ate  there  came  to  my  vision  two 
hungry  looking  faces.  One  of  them  belonged 
to  Meieli  Mevis,  a  big-eyed,  frail  little  girl  in 
a  far  away  country,  and  the  other  to  a  small 
boy  of  the  Latin  race  whom  I  saw  this  morning 

13 


at  the  Juvenile  Court  waiting  for  his  sentence. 
I  never  heard  what  the  complaint  against  him 
was,  but  when  his  mother  led  him  back  to  his 
seat  the  tears  rolled  down  his  small  white 
cheeks  like  rivulets.  Would  they  send  him 
away  from  home,  like  others  of  his  kind,  to 
some  asylum,  or  to  work  on  a  farm? 

"He  is  really  too  small  for  any  task.  Just 
a  babe  who  needs  a  lot  of  love  and  care  and 
wise  direction,"  I  told  myself,  and  I  shivered 
at  the  idea  that  the  brothers  of  the  little  girl 
in  the  fadr-away  country  were  sent  away  from 
home,  at  that  same  age,  not  for  punishment 
but  because  it  was  the  custom  of  those  people, 
and  made  to  take  care  of  cows  and  goats,  to 
peel  potatoes  after  their  day's  work  was  done 
and  to  get  up  with  the  sun  and  gather  thistles 
and  dandelions  before  the  day's  work  of  others 
had  begun. 

Meieli  herself  never  had  to  leave  home  to 
serve  among  strangers,  for  she  was  too  frail 
and  timid,  and  besides  mother  needed  her  for 
the  smaller  children  and  father  would  have 
missed  her  companionship,  even  though  she 
had  very  little  to  say  at  any  time. 

You  see.  Herald,  her  father  was  ill,  not  al- 
ways, but  often,  and  usually  in  the  fall  of  the 
year  after  a  summer's  hard  labor.  Then  she 
would  stand  at  the  foot  of  his  couch  and  watch 
the  movements  of  his  face,  which  sometimes 
twitched  in  pain  and  sometimes  smiled  at  her. 
Or,  when  he  was  asleep  she  would  come  closer 

14 


and  chase  the  flies  away  and  pick  up  the  book 
or  paper  that  had  slipped  from  his  hands,  wish- 
ing that  she  might  be  able  to  read  those  big 
stories. 

And  once  she  gathered  iip  enough  courage 
to  tell  daddy  about  it,  and  he  stroked  her  yel- 
low curls  and  said:  "I  believe  that  you  will  be 
a  story  writer  yourself  some  day,  and  you  will 
earn  so  much  money  and  be  such  a  big  lady 
that  you  won't  know  your  poor  old  daddy  any 
more." 

These  last  words  were  said  teasingly,  but  the 
child  took  them  to  heart  and  for  some  time 
was  very  serious  and  sad.  How  could  daddy 
think  that  of  her? 

Oh,  if  she  could  only  earn  lots  of  money  she 
would  take  him  to  the  famous  Carlsbad,  which 
the  doctor  said  would  bring  about  his  cure! 
He  then  would  not  have  to  work  hard  any 
more,  not  carry  the  heavy  sacks  of  potatoes 
into  the  cellar,  or  stand  all  day  in  the  hot  sun 
and  mow,  and  he  could  eat  white  bread  even 
on  week  days  and  not  have  to  be  content  with 
the  heavy  rye-loaf  that  was  so  hard  to  digest. 
Yes,  and  she  would  do  much  more  for  him,  she 
thought,  but  said  never  a  word. 

Thus  time  went  on  and  the  days  grew 
colder.  The  leaves  in  the  garden  that  had 
chased  each  other  about  for  several  days  lay 
very  still.  The  swallow  had  forsaken  its  nest 
by  the  window  to  take  her  offspring  to  Italy, 
and  the  sparrow  had  made  himself  at  home  in 

15 


the  empty  dwelling,  and  he  would  quarrel  with 
his  neighbor,  the  starling,  because  the  latter 
did  not  pack  up  fast  enough  to  follow  the  swal- 
low on  her  southern  journey. 

Then  one  morning  all  of  the  leafless  trees  in 
the  village  looked  very  dark,  as  if  laden  down 
with  new  foliage  and  a  great  noise  was  hearrd 
above  the  houses,  and  Meili  hastened  to  tell 
her  father  that  the  starlings  were  now  holding 
council  about  selecting  a  leader,  and  that  they 
soon  would  start  their  flight  homeward  and 
give  him  peace. 

The  father,  however,  did  not  reply  with  the 
expected  smile,  but  motioned  to  his  little  girl 
to  come  closer  to  the  couch. 

"Little  one,"  he  said,  "I  am  afraid  that  I 
shall  have  to  go  with  the  starling.  I  have 
prayed,  prayed  faithfully  that  I  might  remain 
with  you,  but  it  seems  as  if  I  have  to  go  even 
ere  mother  comes  from  back  the  city-?" 

"But,  daddy,  you  cannot  walk.  Where  will 
you  go  to?"  Meieli  wished  to  know. 

And  the  father  smiled  through  pain. 
"Where  you  cannot  follow,"  little  daughter. 
"Give  my  love  to  mother  and  your  sister  and 
brothers,  and  take  care  of  them,  and  tell 
mother  not  to  buy  me  a  costly  monument." 

Then  he  lay  very  still,  but  Meieli  wept  and 
prayed  and  hit  the  table  with  her  small  fist. 

"You  must  not  take  daddy  away!"  she  de- 
manded of  the  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth, 
"You  shall  not  take  my  daddy!" 

16 


And  she  ran  out  into  the  woods  where  she 
always  went  in  time  of  distress  and  where  the 
forester  once  found  her  when  she  was  searching 
for  a  dream  which  she  had  thought  was  a  real 
©vent.  Deep  in  the  forest  she  imagined  there 
were  ruins  of  some  old  castle,  and  and  upon 
one  of  those  white  walls  a  fox  hung  by  his  hind 
legs.  Of  course  she  felt  sorry  for  the  fox,  but 
he  had  not  felt  sorry  for  their  little  chicks  and 
had  caused  father  and  mother  to  be  very  sad 
over  their  loss. 

Thither  she  went  that  morning,  not  in  search 
of  the  ruins,  not  to  weep  about  the  sudden 
downfall  of  her  own  airy  castles,  but  to  tell  the 
fairies  of  the  trees,  who  were  supposed  to  be 
kin  to  the  old  man  in  the  long  white  beard  who 
lived  on  top  of  a  ladder  and  to  whom  one  must 
stretch  one's  neck  so  dreadfully,  the  old  man 
whose  picture  her  big  brother  had  shown  her 
when  he  studied  his  lesson,  called  "Joseph's 
Dream,"  to  tell  those  fairies  that  she  would 
not  permit  him  to  take  her  daddy  away. 

Then  she  would  go  to  the  station  to  wait  for 
mother,  who  had  gone  to  the  city  to  see  the 
doctor  and  bring  home  some  medicine. 

By  this  time  sister  Karoline  too  would  be 
back  from  school  and  build  a  fire  and  cook 
daddy  some  milk-soup,  and  later  in  the  day 
when  she  and  sister  came  back  from  the  pas- 
ture and  the  goats  were  milked  and  the  geese 
had  their  water  for  the  night,  he  might  even 
be  well  enough  to  sit  up  and  play  the  accordion 

17 


as  he  always  did  when  his  breast  wasn't  so  sore, 
and  perhaps  brother  Karl  would  get  an  hour's 
leave  of  absence  from  the  place  where  he 
worked  and  they  would  sit  together  by  the 
fireside  and  be  very  happy. 

And  Meieli  always  followed  her  dreams,  and 
carried  them  out,  but  she  often  forgot  facts, 
and  when  she  met  her  mother  at  the  station 
there  was  not  a  word  said  about  jthe  monu- 
ment, but  many  questions  were  asked  about 
Carlsbad,  how  much  it  would  cost  to  go  there, 
and  how  long  it  took  to  make  the  journey,  and 
if  one  could  go  wading  in  the  big  "bath"  as  in 
the  small  village  brook  and  could  catch  little 
green  frogs  that  would  tell  you  all  about  the 
weather. 

When  the  forest  was  behind  them  and  they 
crossed  the  meadows  the  noon  bell  rang  and 
Meieli's  mother  stood  still  to  say  her  prayer 
and  the  people  in  the  fields  laid  down  their 
work  and  folded  their  hands,  and  so  Meieli 
folded  hers,  and  looking  back  over  the  woods, 
said  firmly,  "Tell  him  that  I  won't  have  daddy 
taken  anywhere  but  to  Carlsbad." 

But  the  mother  paid  no  attention  to  that  and 
hastened  homeward.  She  had  often  looked 
at  this  strange  child  and  wondered  what  she 
wfls  thinking  about  and  why  she  stood  and 
looked  on  silently  when  her  sisters  and  broth- 
ers passed  a  joke  or  were  laughing  about  their 
play.  She  was  not  an  imbecile  and  she  had  a 
loving  disposition,  nevertheless  she  caused  her 

18 


mother  much  anxiety.  **I  am  sure  she  ia  not 
taking  after  me,  John,"  she  had  often  said  to 
her  husband.  "We  never  had  the  likes  in  our 
family." 

"No,"  the  father  had  then  replied,  "she  re- 
minds me  of  my  big  sister  Christine." 

Meieli,  however,  was  not  very  fond  of  her 
aunt  Christine,  because  she  always  had  to  take 
off  her  shoes  in  rainy  weather  when  she  and 
father  were  shown  up  to  the  little  room  where 
the  aunt  sat  by  the  small  wood  and  coal  stove, 
and  where  everything  was  so  orderly  that  one 
had  to  sit  very  quiet  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa 
until  aunt  and  father  got  through  talking,  and 
they  nearly  always  talked  from  noon  until  sun 
down. 

Besides,  aunt  Christine  was  not  at  all  gen- 
erous, Meieli  thought,  and  would  never  shake 
the  tree  for  you  at  Christmas,  or  those  in  the 
garden  when  they  were  heavy  with  fruit.  In- 
stead she  told  Meieli  and  her  smaller  brother 
Felix  to  run  as  fast  as  they  could  and  thus 
create  enough  wind  to  cause  the  apples  and 
pears  to  fall.  And  Felix  ran  and  ran  and 
when  he  got  home  no  apples  were  seen  lying 
on  the  ground,  and  aunt  Christine  stood  under 
the  door  and  laughed. 

All  of  that  was  forgotten,  however,  a  year 
later  when  two  weeks  before  Christmas  aunt 
had  carried  a  heavy  basket  to  town. 

"The  walk  had  made  her  tired  and  hot," 
mother  had  said  when  narrating  the  facts,  "and 

19 


so  she  drank  a  glass  of  cold  beer  at  the  station, 
drank  it  somewhat  hastily  perhaps,  and  when 
she  reached  her  destination  her  whole  body 
seemed  to  be  on  fire,  and  she  had  to  go  to  bed. 
Of  course  they  at  once  called  the  doctor,  but 
he  said  that  the  condition  is  serious." 

Then  father  had  gone  to  the  city  and  re- 
mained there  until  auntie  felt  better,  and  when 
he  came  home  mother  went  once  more,  for  be- 
sides seeing  aunt  Christine  she  had  to  have  a 
talk  with  Santa  Claus,  as  the  boys  needed 
shoes  and  mittens  and  the  girls  some  new 
aprons. 

Meieli  noticed  that  her  father  was  very  silent 
during  those  days,  that  he  never  touched  his 
accordion  any  more  and  did  not  tell  the  chil- 
dren any  Christmas  stories  when  they  gathered 
about  him  on  the  sofa  after  supper. 

Mother  came  back  from  the  city  on  Christ- 
mas Eve.  Sister  Karoline  had  scrubbed  the 
floors  to  a  snowy  white  and  father  had  set  up 
a  nice  fir  tree  to  be  trimmed  that  night.  The 
oldest  boys  who  had  come  home  for  the  winter 
as  soon  as  the  ground  began  to  freeze,  and 
there  was  no  longer  any  pasture  for  the  cattle, 
had  gone  to  meet  mother  at  the  station. 

It  had  already  grown  dark  when  they  came 
in  laden  with  baskets  and  bundles.  Yet 
father  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  presents,  but 
held  a  light  up  to  mother's  face  to  see  the  news 
that  she  would  bring.  Then,  even  ere  she  said 
a  word,  he  murmured,   "Oh,  the  dear  old  sis- 

20 


ter!  Good  old  Christine.*'  And  he  wept.  And 
mother  too  got  a  corner  of  her  apron  into  her 
eyes  and  said  that  aunt  Christine  was  to  be 
buried  the  day  after  Christmas. 

Since  then  MeieH's  feelings  toward  her  aunt 
had  changed,  and  she  told  herself  that  she 
would  gladly  sit  Sunday  after  Sunday  in  the 
quiet  corner  of  the  sofa  if  only  daddy  could 
talk  again  to  **dear  old  sister." 

But,  Herald,  it  is  getting  late  and  I  have  du- 
ties awaiting  me,  so  I  shall  say  goodbye  and 
tell  you  more  about  the  little  girl  in  my  next 
letter,  how  they  got  home  and  found  father. 

I  also  will  go  to  see  my  little  sad-eyed  sweet- 
heart from  the  Juvenile  Court.  I  heard  that 
he  lived  somewhere  on  Fell  Street,  and  since 
it  is  only  a  month  until  Christmas  and  there  are 
boxing  gloves,  tin  soldiers  and  picture  books  to 
be  had  in  the  stores,  I  believe  that  there  are 
some  happy  hours  before  him. 
Your  sincere, 

GERALDINE. 

(To  be  continued) 


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wr^::*- 


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n^^ 

A^^^^ 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  UBRARY 


